Nightlock, Nightlock, Nightlock
by Dreamer1313
Summary: Behind every choice, there's a reason. Behind every end, there's a beginning. Behind every present, there's a past. Why was it exactly that the Head Gamemaker of the 74th annual Hunger Games, Seneca Crane, let both Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark survive, against strict orders to allow only one Victor? For the sake of a good show? Or for the sake of something else entirely?
1. Prologue: In The End

**Ok, so this is my first fic ever. I have never really thought about giving fanfiction a go, but after this story just popped up in my head, I couldn't resist. I am in love with the Hunger Games books, and after seeing the film I became fascinated by the character of Seneca Crane. The question of why he let Katniss and Peeta survive really stuck with me, and because I so wanted to shake him awake and make him see the Capitol and the concept of the Games for what they really are, I came up with a why of my own :)**

**Also, I am not a native speaker of English, so do bear with any grammatical errors or typos that might still remain in the text.**

**Lastly, needless to say I don't own the Hunger Games, or Seneca, as much as I would love to :D It all belongs to the amazing Suzanne Collins, and I'm merely playing in her backyard. Naturally, I don't own the lyrics and titles of the respective songs I am using as chapter titles in this story either.**

* * *

**Behind every choice, there's a reason. Behind every end, there's a beginning. Behind every present, there's a past.**

Two years before the 74th Hunger Games. The Capitol.

Seneca Crane has got it made. In every aspect of his life, he enjoys the best the Capitol can offer: the looks, the luxury, the ladies, and now even the 'top job', the most aspired position in the Control Room of the annual Hunger Games – Head Gamemaker. He's pursued his career practically all his life, and it has never so much as crossed his mind to doubt or question, much less _defy_, the strict rules and controversial traditions of the Capitol. To Seneca, the Games have always been more about exciting television entertainment and carefully constructed visual art rather than pointless slaughter of innocent children, since as a privileged citizen of the Capitol he's never had to live with the fear of ending up in one of the Games himself or watch a loved one having to face that dark prospect. But as the 72nd Hunger Games begin and a ghost from the past pays Seneca a visit, the new Head Gamemaker is forced to explore the other side of the coin as well, and decide just how much he is willing to lay on the line for the sake of a good show.

Defying the Capitol means certain death. Refusing to means having to live with the consequences. And for the first time, he can't decide which is worse.

* * *

Prologue

**In The End**

_It all comes back to me in the end_

The corridor is empty. The lights are out. Only the faint gleam of the moonlight that shines through the skylight windows on the ceiling fights the all-consuming darkness. One of the two Peacekeepers escorting me motions me to step out of the elevator, and they fall into step with me as I walk towards the double doors at the other end of the corridor. The thirty-second walk seems like a lifetime.

Whatever's waiting for me behind those doors, I know it's not going to be good. In all probability, President Snow is going to personally strip me of my title and the little reputation I might still have left, humiliate me publically and maybe even try and torture any information out of me he thinks might be valuable. And when he finally comes to sign my death sentence and order my execution to be carried out, he will have made me the perfect warning example.

The Head Gamemaker who showed mercy. The message is simple: gamemaking plus humane thinking equals GAME OVER.

I guess in a way I always knew my job would eventually get me killed. That as far as the Capitol's concerned, a disappointing Gamemaker is just as easily disposable as each of the 24 Tributes from the Districts. It didn't stop me from signing up for it, though. I was so cocky and self-confident, and so blissfully blind to the true, twisted nature of the entire concept of it, that even though I knew death was pretty much the inevitable outcome, I always figured that rather than the destination, what actually mattered more was what would happen on the journey. I was determined to make sure that instead of a single inevitable lapse in judgment that would no doubt land me in the death row sooner or later, I would be remembered for all the magic and genius I could conjure up for the entertainment of the people of Panem until that. They would come to know me as the Gamemaker who created some of the greatest, most exceptional and unforgettable arenas in the history of the Games.

That's what I spent my whole life aiming at. Always the 'great' things. Never the right ones.

I come to a halt at the doors. I know I have nothing left to lose, and I briefly consider fearlessly confronting the President, giving him a piece of my mind and giving him the finger by going down swinging. But that wouldn't really make a difference, would it, and it certainly wouldn't serve anyone else's best interest. So I will stick to my story of basing all my decisions exclusively on the aim of creating good, thrilling television entertainment 'til the very end. Which, when you think about it, is actually pretty much exactly what I _was_ doing: giving the people the show they wanted, the grand finale they'd talk about for years, and the only outcome they would accept. If Snow wants my life, fine, he can have it, since he's pretty much had it all along anyway. But I'm not going to hand him any more of those of others on a plate, because God knows I'm already responsible for the loss of way too many lives as it is. I seem to have finally come to realize it myself as well.

The Peacekeepers open the doors and I walk through, expecting to find myself face to face with the President inside. But the room's empty. And the shiver that runs down my spine tells me it's exactly how Snow wants it. In the middle of the room stands a small table, but before I manage to take a closer look, I hear the doors closing behind me, and though I turn around and tentatively pull one of the handles, I already know they're locked and that I won't be leaving this room. Not alive, anyway.

I turn back to take in the space once more and step closer to the table, which, I now notice, has a crystal bowl standing on it. A crystal bowl filled with berries. For a split second, I just stand there and stare at it. And then I completely freeze and experience a strong, invisible pressure around my windpipe, as comprehension dawns on me. Not just any berries. Nightlock.

Despite the sudden, crushing weight on my chest, I can't help sneering. Point taken, I muse. Well played, Mr. President. Milking the irony to the fullest. And to top it off by graciously allowing me to do the honours myself? Yes, the joke's on me, alright.

But the thing is, I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry for making the choice I'm being crucified for, the 'mistake' I'm paying for with my life. It was the only thing that made any sense, letting both of the Tributes from Twelve live. It was the only way for these Games to have a winner and yes, it was also goddamn good television. Besides, it was public demand, the happy ending for the initially tragic love story. People wanted them to get that, _needed_ them to get that. So I allowed it. Whether it was for the audience's sake, the two Tributes' or my own, I don't know. But I did, and I'm not sorry for sticking my neck out and now consequently having to face the music by doing so. I don't regret following my own instincts, listening for the first time in a long, long time to that haunting gut feeling some people call one's conscience. What I _do_ regret are the times when I could have, but didn't. When I _should_ have, and didn't.

But crying over spilt milk doesn't change a thing, does it.

I pick up one single berry from the bowl and hold it up. I wonder what it feels like. Dying. And whether there's anything on the other side. Anything or any_one_.

Guess I'll just have to find out.

I raise the berry to my lips. My life flashes before my eyes...


	2. For Your Entertainment

Chapter 1

**For Your Entertainment**

_Let's go, it's my show_

The first sensation that registered with my brain that morning was the killer headache, immediately followed by the instant regret over that last glass of champagne. _Holy fuck!_ The very clearly articulated thought came out as only a low groan. Alright, alright! Regretting the last _bottle_ of champagne, then...

What was I supposed to do? Kindly decline the compliments of the President of Panem? Hell, no. After all, I _had_ managed to convince him of my skills yesterday afternoon, presenting my updated plan for the upcoming 72nd Annual Hunger Games to him in person.

He had, of course, seen the design of the arena months earlier, when it had been sent to him for approval before the lengthy construction process could get underway. At that time I had in fact still been a mere Gamemaker, without the 'Head'. You see, after seeing some of my best work over the years, and after facing the misfortune of having run out of fresh ideas himself, the former Head Gamemaker, Ion Bendwaithe, had asked me to craft a rough draft of an arena I would personally like to see used in the Games. When I had, he'd been very impressed with my ideas – so impressed, in fact, that he'd basically presented them to the President as his own. Asshole.

But the thing is, deceiving President Coriolanus Snow is a risky thing to try, since the man seems to have a disturbingly intimidating awareness of everything that's going on behind the scenes. So what happened was that he approved of the design, and personally came down to deliver the good news to rest of the Gamemakers the next day. Along with an announcement that because he appreciated the talent that had obviously gone into creating the concept of this year's arena, he saw it only fitting that its actual designer should get the chance to finish what they started, since _due to unforeseen, unfortunate circumstances_, Ion Bendwaithe would not be returning as Head Gamemaker as originally planned. He walked up to me and offered me the position right there and then, in front of all the rest of my colleagues. I accepted without hesitation. And Bendwaithe? I never saw or heard of him since. What happened to him, I didn't know. I certainly didn't ask. After all, I was still pissed he'd tried to use my hard work to advance his own career. So whatever his fate, the old fart had it coming.

I, on the other hand, was now even more eager to prove myself, and I had determinedly kept developing and conjuring up a pile of new, additional features and elements with a unique, personal touch to them – just so that it would be unmistakably clear to everyone right from the beginning who was running the show. Blood, sweat and tears had gone into planning all the twists, traps and nasty surprises this year's Tributes would encounter in the arena, but eventually I found myself pleased with and proud of the result. And apparently, so did Snow.

"Excellent work, Seneca", the President had said, giving me an approving nod. "Seems like you're going to give the audience their money's worth. I like it. Take the evening off and celebrate, you've earned it. But do make sure the televising of the reapings will go according to plan tomorrow. We wouldn't want to mess anything up on the first official day of a new Games. And a new Head Gamemaker. Dismissed." And when the President suggests that you party, you do, and when he has two bottles of the best champagne in the Capitol sent to your table, you drink. My point is, once you've made it to his good books, you should make the most of every second of it while it lasts. Because it's not exactly the easiest thing to get there.

With considerable effort, I finally managed to get on my feet and after treating myself to a generous dose of painkillers, I quickly cleaned up, got dressed and headed for work. Today it would begin then. The 72nd Annual Hunger Games. My first one in charge. I couldn't deny that it made me slightly nervous. Not in a bad way though. In fact it was an addictively energizing and exciting feeling, knowing that soon I would get to put all those plans and designs into action and turn them into reality. I had already impressed the President. Now it was time to wow the rest of Panem as well.

And I couldn't wait to get to it.

* * *

When I arrived in the Control Room, most of my colleagues were already there, checking and testing the equipment, instructing the camera crews in the Districts, and making sure everything was in place. The Reaping ceremony always took place simultaneously in every District, and so, besides supervising every one of them, it was our job to create the edited recap of all of them that would be shown all around Panem later in the evening.

"Good day, everyone. How are we doing?"

"We have Districts One to Four and Six to Ten standing by, sir", replied a blonde haired, middle-aged Gamemaker. "We are experiencing some slight technical difficulties in Eleven, but we're on it, and we're also improving the camera angles on Twelve."

Plutarch Heavensbee was a veteran Gamemaker of almost twenty years now, and he was one of the most experienced and most respected professionals in the team. He knew the equipment and the technology like the back of his hand, and he had a very creative eye for designing an arena as well. With that kind of combo up against me, I was almost surprised that Snow had picked me as Bendwaithe's successor and not him. Almost.

"Technical difficulties or not, you better make sure Eleven's aboard when this ship sails, Heavensbee", I told him. "And also, since we only have ten minutes before the start of the ceremonies, and I didn't hear you mentioning Five, I would very much like to know where we are with it."

"Yes, sir, I'll get on it right away."

"No, no, you stay on Eleven and Twelve. We agreed to have one Gamemaker supervising one, max two Districts, did we not? So who's on Five?" Taking a look around the room, I quickly found confirmation for my suspicion that there were indeed one too few pairs of eyes fixed on the holograms and screens before them. And I didn't have to ask which one was missing.

"Yes, of course, who else", I mumbled under my breath, before turning back to Plutarch. "Alright, Heavensbee, take care of Eleven and Twelve. Cora?"

A younger, female Gamemaker supervising District Four turned her eyes to meet mine.

"Look after Five for a moment, would you."

"Will do, sir."

I rolled my eyes as they both went back to work and shot a glance at the doors, as if expecting my fiery glare to drag in the last member of the team. Apparently, someone else had enjoyed last night's celebration a bit too much as well. Which wasn't really a surprise – truth be told, given his usual habits with parties and drink, I should have expected nothing less from this particular colleague of mine, especially after seeing him downing champagne like water by the end of last night. But the fact that I kind of knew to expect a no-show from him wouldn't by any means stop me from strangling him personally if he dared pull one today.

The sound of the doors being opened, and that of quick footsteps approaching the working stations just a couple of minutes before the start of the ceremonies indicated that to his fortune, he didn't.

"You're late, Levenridge", I snapped as he strode to his station and relieved Cora from fulfilling his responsibilities.

"Yes, I'm aware of that", he replied, ruffling his messy, green hair (he seemed to have a different colour for every week). Then, after meeting my gaze, he shot me a mischievous grin. "You look dreadful, Crane."

"You're addressing your superior, so there should be a 'sir' in there somewhere", I replied, suppressing a grin of my own. "And just so you know, you're not exactly the spitting image of fresh energy and health yourself."

Brett Levenridge was the one member of the team of Gamemakers here today who I had known and worked with for the longest. We had gone through the training and internship simultaneously, and had both started as Official Gamemakers the same year. And even outside the Control Room, we somehow seemed to always end up in the same circles and same social events. So I guess in a way, over the years, Brett had become the closest thing to a friend I would allow there to be – since I did generally figure that with Gamemaking being a business with a lot of competition, having such things as friends and family would seriously jeopardize your career if a competitor cunning and ruthless enough decided to use your personal life against you in order to sabotage your professional one. But then again, I also figured it was more than useful to have allies, and that it couldn't hurt if one of them was someone I actually got nicely along with.

"Eleven and Twelve are sorted", said Plutarch's voice from the other side of the room. "One minute and we're live."

"Good work, Plutarch. I guess I'll have to let you keep your seat around that table after all. Brett, you got everything under control there?"

"Well, the nausea is starting to wear off, but the headache's still a bitch. I would also kill for a buffet lunch."

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. "I'll rephrase: how's _Five_?"

"Oh, the usual: sunny, dry, boring… And standing by."

"Good. Alright then, people. Let's get to it, and let's enjoy the show while we're at it. And let's not screw anything up, shall we. Three, two, one. Go."

The beginning of the Reaping ceremony was the same every year. First the anthem of Panem. Then a short welcome note from the Escort of the District in question. Then the video montage of the rebellion, the war, the Capitol's triumph, the destruction of District Thirteen and the creating of the Games – the beginning and background of the concept. And then it was finally time to get to the real business.

Standing behind Brett (whether it was because I wanted to breathe on his neck as a consequence of his late arrival, or because I simply feared he might pass out on his station if I didn't), I watched the people of District Five gathered in the square, stiff and still, waiting for the names of their Tributes for this year's Games to be read. They were grouped around the square in the usual manner, the girls on one side, the boys on the other, and the parents and those not eligible for reaping in the background. And then of course, the District's own Victors of former Games on the stage, along with the Escort, Delanna Frickett, and the Mayor. In Five, there were only four former Victors still alive: Dell Friwell, a stocky built, bald man, the winner of the 47tb Games, now a forty-something mentor; Shirley Whiss, the elderly female Victor of a thirty-something Games; Kay Bott, the male Victor from six years ago; and a strong and healthy looking head turner with short, fiery red hair and the form of a warrior goddess. The Victor of the 59th Games. Arya Cobb.

"Joining me in drooling over her?" inquired Brett with a smirk. "Damn, she's one hot piece of work, isn't she."

"Yeah, she's a looker, alright", I agreed. "Very determined and hot tempered as well, if memory serves. Beautiful and deadly."

"You would know", Brett grinned. "Having survived to tell the tale."

I grinned at the memory as well. Brett was of course referring to the aftermath of the Victory ceremony after the 59th Games. At the time, exactly thirteen years ago, I had just turned seventeen and started working as an assistant to an Official Gamemaker, in order to gain experience needed for finishing my training, and to establish connections that might help me get in the inside circles once I made the permanent move from the classroom to the Control Room. My mentor had given me the chance to accompany him to the celebrations after the Victory ceremony, to meet people in the field and to experience the lighter side of the job. That's where I had met Arya Cobb, that year's Victor. She'd been a mere 16-year-old, but even then she'd appeared as strong and fiery as ever. Like now, she had captured my attention immediately. And in the light of what had followed, it seemed safe to say that at least to an extent, I had captured hers as well. There had been drinking, dancing, drinking, flirting. More drinking. More flirting. To put it diplomatically, it had been a great night, and we'd had fun. A lot of extremely good 'fun'. Which was why I thought it a great pity that she had never set foot on the Capitol again since the end of her own Victory Tour (was it her own, personal way of going as far as she could without actually disobeying orders?). Because even though I wasn't the least bit the affectionate, monogamous type, even I wouldn't have said no to recurring rounds of 'fun' with that high a quality. The way I saw it, there could never be too much of that.

"And a fine tale it is", I said under my breath, loud enough for only Brett to catch the words.

"I bet", he replied. "Oh, right, they're moving on to the actual reaping now..."

As usual, the female Tribute was chosen first, and in District Five's case it was a girl of approximately fourteen or fifteen years old that got picked this year. She looked as terrified as they always did right after being chosen as Tribute (well, except the Career Tributes from the wealthier Districts, to whom it was a great honor to represent their District in the Games), and she barely got a word out when Delanna attempted at some small talk with her. Pathetic, I thought. With that level of panic, she wouldn't last one day in the arena. But then again, not a lot of them ever did.

Then it was time for the boys. Delanna picked a single piece of paper from the second large glass ball full of little pieces of paper, this one containing all the eligible boys' names on them. "Aden Cobb", she read the name out loud. The camera angle switched, so that the group of boys standing in the square were now placed in the spotlight. There was a collective sigh from those who had avoided becoming a Tribute this year, and the expression of relief spread on their faces so quickly it was relatively easy to spot the single one in whose favor the odds were not anymore. He was standing in the very back row: a little, quite slender built, pale boy with hair as red as flames. Only then did one plus one finally equal two, and the name registered with my brain. Cobb. Could he be related to Arya? He had to be. The same fiery red hair already said that much.

Escorted by Peacekeepers, the boy slowly approached the stage and as he climbed onto it in silence, the cameras picked up a glimpse of the former Victors standing in the background, and I could see an expression of utter shock and disbelief in the usually so stern face of Arya's. And when the boy stole a quick, pleading glance at her direction, there was no doubt about it. They definitely shared more than just the last name.

"Hello, Aden", said Delanna cheerfully, steering the boy gently closer to his female counterpart. "How old are you, sweetheart?"

"Twelve", a shaky voice replied.

"And excited to represent your District in this year's Hunger Games, I'm sure. What do you think, are you going to have your mother as your mentor? Or would you rather have someone else train you?"

He stole another glance at Arya, who gave a simple, quick nod in reply. The shock and panic seemed to have given way for steely rage and her trademark determination.

"I guess… I guess my mother will be my mentor", he told Delanna.

"Excellent, excellent!" she beamed. "So here they are, ladies and gentlemen, the Tributes from District Five: Leah Parmin and Aden Cobb. We all wish you two the best of luck. May the odds be ever in your favor!"

At this point, the Mayor of each District stepped forward to read the Treaty of Treason, after which the new Tributes shook hands, and eventually the playing of the anthem came to conclude the ceremony.

"And we're out", I announced as the live coverage was cut. "Twenty-minute break and then we'll start with the editing."

The room emptied quickly, as over half of the Gamemakers headed out the door, most likely to grab a bite or a cup of coffee to keep them going for the next undefined period of time. After all, the edited recap of the reapings was scheduled to be aired later this evening, so we only had a few hours to get the job finished.

"Well, that was interesting", said Brett as he stood up shakily, apparently planning on following the example of the others. "The Cobb kid being picked, I mean."

"Can't disagree", I nodded. "Should be interesting to see if he's got any of his mother's old tricks up his sleeve. If he does, who knows, he could even make it through the initial bloodbath."

The grin that spread on Brett's face was somehow disturbingly knowing. And consequently, extremely annoying.

"Not the only thing you're interested to see this year, is it though?" he winked. "Since it looks like Miss Cobb will be returning to the Capitol as well this time. And when she does, who knows, maybe a certain 'fine tale' should get the chance to expand into a sequel."

He was right, of course. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of having me admit it.

"Just get out and stuff your face, so you won't have to complain about being hungry for the rest of the shift", I told him.

"Now that's an order I'll be happy to obey. _Sir._"

"You'd better be back on time though, Levenridge", I called after him as he disappeared in the corridor.

Then, before heading out in search of a huge cup of coffee myself, I quickly glanced at the last, paused image of the District Five Tributes and former Victors that remained on Brett's screen. Intriguing, I mused.

Very intriguing, indeed.


	3. Sure Fire Winners

Author's Note: Ok, first of all, I am so very terribly sorry for taking so ridiculously long with this update. It's just that I have been playing the role of a Tribute in a real life version of the Hunger Games, also more commonly known as the Examinations and Final Essays Games, and that has taken up all my time for the last month or so. But now you finally have a new chapter to enjoy, and I hope it will be worth the wait. I haven't edited it that much yet, so I will go back and do that later - for now, I just wanted to post this chapter as quickly as possible :)

* * *

Chapter 2

**Sure Fire Winners**

_Giving you something to shout about_

"Finally!" Brett exclaimed cheerfully as he caught up with me on the way out of the Control Room four and a half hours later. "About time we moved on to the fun part of the day! Should be a good night, what with the cream of the Capitol and the former Victors getting down together. So bye bye, business – hello, pleasure."

"You just can't get enough, can you?" I put in. "Still recovering from one epic hangover whilst already preparing to work for the next one."

"Hey, I'm just making the most of the season and everything that comes with it, the very next thing in line being a large beer if I can help it. So what do you say, shall we put our feet up and get the good time started or what?"

I couldn't help but smile amusedly at Brett's immortal party spirit. He was right though, about the Games season spicing things up. I mean, yes, a party in the Capitol was always full of glitter and glamour, any time of year. But even so, the ones that took place during that one week starting from the Reaping Day and ending in the day the Tributes were placed in the arena, had a unique, star-struck feel about them, with all the Tributes and their mentors present, and with the knowledge of the entire Panem having turned their eyes towards the Capitol and the Games. And then of course the Crowning of the Victor after (in the best case scenario) a thrilling and well-executed Games, and the huge after-party would serve as the icing on the already incredibly delicious cake. It was one VIP event after another, each night more memorable than the next. So even off camera, it was a damn good show. And as a thoroughbred showman, there was nothing I liked better.

"I'm always up for some high quality entertainment", I replied. "But I'm going to have to let the entertainment wait just a couple more hours. The recap is airing as we speak, and as soon as it finishes, I'll be having a nice little chat with Ceasar Flickerman about it."

"Oh yeah, that's right! I keep forgetting you're a somebody these days, Crane. Which should basically be impossible, what with your face on every poster and ad there is."

"It's a good face", I grinned. "One that sells just about anything. Can't rob the advertisement world of that, can I?"

"It _was_ a good face", insisted Brett, "until the man wearing it went from actually using a razor to just advertising them. Seriously, too much hair action and, hence, way too much daily trimming for my taste."

"It's called style", I replied, shooting him one last, quick smirk before we parted ways, him embarking on the mission to hunt down a drink and me continuing towards the City Circle where the interview would take place. "You should try it sometime."

"Yeah, yeah. Just go knock 'em dead, Mr. Big Shot", he waved my sarcastic comment off as he practically pranced away. "Give good old Caesar my best."

As I directed both my thoughts and my steps towards the City Circle, I pondered over Brett's friendly poking fun of my current popularity. True enough, the commercial side of the top job – the celebrity status and the countless PR gigs that came with the position, and consequently also the increased public interest in the more personal aspect of my character as opposed to only my work and achievements as a Gamemaker – had indeed advanced my rapid rise to the level of fame I was enjoying these days. But it was by no means unexpected, and by even lesser means was I bothered by or uncomfortable with it. On the contrary, I was more than content with the way the recent addition of the 'Head' to the already quite esteemed title of Gamemaker had made me a household name practically overnight. Some of the other Gamemakers frowned upon this, of course, mumbling the age old argument under their breath over and over again: that it was in their opinion ridiculously unfair that there were dozens of Gamemakers working their asses off all year round, trying to make each Games a great success and offer the best possible entertainment for the people of Panem to enjoy, and yet the only one who got to stand in the spotlight and take a bow was the one with the 'Head' in front of their title.

I couldn't have disagreed with them more. To me it didn't seem the slightest bit unfair that the person captaining the entire production, the main designer of the arena and the mastermind behind all the traps and twists inside it should get the attention and recognition they deserved. Unlike the certain jealous idiots I worked with, I knew for a fact and from personal experience that instead of lazy bastards who made their fortune taking credit for other people's input, those few who made it to Head Gamemaker were actually the ones who worked the hardest and had the most talent. Credit was to be given to whom credit was due, and since I felt that mine was long overdue anyway, what with all the years of tireless, hard and determined work in the sidelines and especially after the recent incident of Bendwaithe nearly stealing my thunder with this year's arena design, I didn't bother to even pretend I understood their discontent. The reason for their lack of screen time and recognition was not in the face they saw in all those posters and ads out there but in the ones looking back at them in the mirror. And it was their problem if in the midst of all the complaining they failed to find the time to actually look into one and realize that. I sure as hell wasn't going to pretend to be ashamed, overwhelmed or even humbled by all the fame and glory that was directed my way. No, I would walk onto that stage tonight, live on national television, proud as a peacock and enjoy to the fullest what was rightfully mine to enjoy. Those who disapproved could frown themselves to death for all I cared.

After being led to a private dressing room backstage for some last minute styling and make-up (ah, the miracles professional make-up artists could make to hide the signs of a hangover!), it was finally time for me to officially step in front of the entire nation for the first time as Head Gamemaker, and sit down for an interview with the legendary Caesar Flickerman. And even though I held firmly onto my proud peacock act, I couldn't entirely ignore what felt like a cloud of overexcited butterflies racing around in my stomach when my name was announced and the bright, hot glare of the spotlights found me as I walked onto the stage, welcomed by the roaring, deafening applause from the sea of people that had gathered in the City Circle to watch the recap of the reapings and the interview. The moment was simply surreal, even in my standards, and as I shook hands with Flickerman before we sat down, I had to allow myself just the most fleeting experience of being absolutely, one hundred per cent star-struck. Because the truth was it had always been much more to me than just a career goal to work towards, the title of Head Gamemaker and everything that came with it. It had also been a childhood dream, one that I had had pretty much as long as I could remember.

Ever since the first Games I had watched that I could remember anything of, at the age of six years, I had developed a never-ending fascination for the mechanics and the production of it, experienced an intense, inexplicable pull towards what went on behind the scenes and the cameras that caught the entire spectacle. While other kids of the same age had focused on picking a favourite Tribute, finding out everything about them and cheering them on in the fights and dangers they faced in the arena, I had found it ten times more interesting to learn about how those dangers had actually come about. My father had started teaching me the very basics of gamemaking a couple of years later, and before reaching the districts' minimum reaping age of twelve, I had made it my life's mission to become the best Gamemaker of all time. It hadn't mattered to me that I was different from most of the other kids out there who preferred setting their sights on the more common dream occupations, such as Stylist or Peacekeeper, that in their eyes were certainly much cooler and glamorous than gamemaking. They would see, I had kept thinking. Because I wasn't going to be just an ordinary, mediocre run-off-the-mill Gamemaker, standing in the sidelines for their entire career, constantly overshadowed by the more talented, ambitious and hard working individuals in the business. No, I would be _Head_ Gamemaker, the most skilled, hard working and creative one Panem had ever seen. Every single Peacekeeper and Stylist in the Capitol would know my name, along with the rest of the country. Then we'd see who was cool and glamorous and who was not.

This was that moment for me: the one where everything I had ever wanted, everything I had ever worked for had finally paid off, and where the childhood fantasy of one day shaking the hand of Ceasar Flickerman and being interviewed by him as Head Gamemaker had at last turned into reality. It was like a drug, making me feel on top of the world, unstoppable, invincible. Indestructible.

"Mr. Crane", began Flickerman as the applause finally died down. "Welcome to the show, and thank you for making time for us in your what I assume is an incredibly busy schedule."

"The pleasure is all mine", I replied with the most charming smile in my repertoire. "And please, by all means, do call me Seneca."

"Very well, if you insist", he nodded. "So, _Seneca_. First of all, congratulations on landing the most aspired position in the Control Room. I believe this promotion makes you one of the youngest Head Gamemakers in the history of the Games. And rumor has it that you might just be one of the most extremely talented as well. Some have even used the term 'genius' when referring to your creativity and architectural skills."

"Yes", I replied, after taking in another roar of applause from the audience. "And others would no doubt call that an understatement."

The applause turned into a collective laugh, and I shot the cameras a quick grin. Now this was the good stuff, I thought. Attention, admiration, respect. This I could definitely get used to.

"That's the right attitude!" beamed Flickerman. "Love the confidence! I imagine that has been one of the very things that have got you this far."

"That and all the years of training and hard work", I said. "And of course there's the heritage factor that can't be denied as well, the gamemaking gene, if you will. I'm a second generation Gamemaker, and my father began teaching me from quite early on. So in a way I have always had this in me, and I've aspired to be an outstanding Gamemaker for as long as I can remember. And so, even though thirty years may sound like an awfully young age for a Head Gamemaker, I assure you I have more than enough experience and talent for the job."

"I don't think any of us doubts that, do they?" he smiled playfully at the audience and milked another round of applause and whistling out of them. "Now then, let's talk about the Reaping, shall we? Tell us what you think about this year's Tributes. We have just seen the recap, made our own conclusions and created our own initial expectations, and now I'm sure we'd all very much like to hear yours."

"Well, from what I can tell, it seems like quite the typical mix", I said. "There's the usual pact of careers from One, Two and Three that always creates a significant threat to the rest of the Tributes. We also have quite a few younger ones, twelve to thirteen-year-olds this year, which portends either a very entertaining bloodbath or some totally unexpected positive surprises. But of course we will only find out the real name of the game once they're in the arena. I mean, sure, we get a glimpse of their survival skills and some of their individual talents during the training and the evaluation, but their real ability of playing the game is only measured after they step off those platforms after the final countdown."

"They don't necessarily need to reveal all the aces in their sleeves before that moment, no, you're right", agreed Flickerman. "But if they wish to convince their sponsors to keep investing in them, they will have to do so sooner or later in the arena. Speaking of which, we are all extremely eager and anxious to see the milieu of this year's spectacle, which I understand is your design from the layout to the tiniest detail. Any chance you could give us a hint as to what kind of setting we should expect to see on those giant screens a week from tomorrow?"

An excited cheer followed Flickerman's comment, and I had to wait a while for it to die down before I could reply.

"Well, to start off, you are correct, in that the arena is completely of my original design. Basically, what I've done is I've taken something everybody knows, something extremely natural and ordinary and, with the help of my colleagues and the professional team of constructors, turned it into something extraordinary and supernatural. Other than that", I flashed the audience a mischievous grin, "I think I'm just going to be evil and keep the rest of it a secret for another week or so."

"Oh, come on!" insisted Flickerman. "You've got to give us more that that! Something about the overall theme? A description of a particular significant detail, perhaps? Anything to feed our curiosity."

"You know, the thing is there is no one single overall theme this year", I began, "but more like a multilayered set of themes and related elements that we're working with. And by mixing those themes and elements with and connecting them to one another, sometimes in natural order and sometimes in total disarray, we will create this sort of changing continuum lasting for the entire duration of the Games that the Tributes will have to keep adjusting to in order to survive. I'm not giving away any particular details, but I guess I could ease your anxiety a little by giving you the number 'four', which basically, in all its simplicity, contains more or less everything you need to know about this year's arena, to consider for the time being. Does that sound reasonable?"

"Perhaps we can live with that information for now", nodded Flickerman as the audience gave another cheer. "It sure sounds like we're going to be in for a real treat this year. The premise seems very bold, and the entire concept sounds like an extremely, deliciously ambitious endeavor, one we absolutely can't wait to see in effect."

"It is a bold premise, and a very ambitious endeavor indeed, a risky one even", I agreed. "One that's quite unlike anything seen in the Games in a long time. And one I can personally promise to successfully pull off. So the thing is, if you expect a good, play-it-safe show, I'm not sure I can deliver. But if you want a spectacular, _unforgettable_ one, you can be sure I will give you exactly that."

"You make it sound like we might actually get to witness one of the greatest Hunger Games of all time this year!" beamed Flickerman, standing up on his feet and shaking my hand again as I followed his example. "I sure hope that is the case! Ladies and gentlemen, give it up one more time for our new, dazzling Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane!"

A ripping roar of applause spread all around the City Circle, and as the audience got on their feet in a standing ovation, I could hear them chanting my name in unison as they cheered. Riding the energetic wave of adrenaline the scene brought about, I took my bow and just took in the sight before heading backstage. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I thought as the cheers echoed in my head. You'll be screaming my name time after time, year after year from now on. Because now that I had hit the big time, now that I'd finally reached the top, I damn well was there to stay. The only way I would leave would be in a coffin – which, in all likelihood would indeed eventually be the case when my time was up, my skills all deteriorated, my judgment permanently rusted. But with the way things were going right now, it seemed like that moment was still a long, long time away. So in the meantime, I would blow the roof off the place as many times as I possibly could, and leave behind an entire legend of extraordinary gamemaking that would write my name on the hall of fame for the coming generations of Gamemakers to see and to look up to. Now that my name was on everyone's lips, I would make them shout it out so many times that when the time finally came that they were given the chance to forget, they wouldn't, no, _couldn't_.

And damn, would I have the time of my life doing that.

* * *

When I arrived at the big nightclub right next to the Games Center, the place was already packed with energetic, excited party goers and Capitol celebrities enjoying the first night of a new Games season. Everybody wanted to be a part of these celebrations, and as I glanced at the ridiculously long queue outside the club, at the square filled with people hoping to get their share of the night's glamour, I was quite thankful for my celebrity status and its getting me right past that sea of party goers and through the doors without any unnecessary waiting around. Once inside, I was ushered to the VIP section, and I quickly spotted Brett, Cora and a couple of other colleagues gathered in a private lounge.

"There he is, the man of the hour", Brett greeted me with a grin after having finished ordering the next round of drinks. "Had a good time with Flickerman?"

"It was alright", I replied as I sat down next to him.

"Oh, come on, Crane, cut the crap and just admit you loved it", Brett insisted, rolling his eyes. "The audience was eating off your hands and you've been looking forward to shaking Ceasar's hand for as long as I have known you. I can think of a lot of words for you to describe that moment with, but a mere 'alright' ain't one of them."

"He doesn't even have to admit it", grinned Cora. "Just take a look at him, at that sparkle in his eye, and it's obvious he's still completely stoked about it."

"That may or may not be true", I winked back at her.

"Seriously, though, you totally enjoyed leaving them hungry for more, didn't you. And I'm pretty sure you also frightened most of the Tributes to death already. I mean, after watching you promise the people of Panem an 'unforgettable show´, I'd be peeing my pants if I were one of them."

"They _should_ be scared", I said. "Even if they think they can make it, that they can play the game, they should keep in mind that it's _my_ game they're playing, and that though they may be able to outsmart each other, hell will freeze over before they succeed in outsmarting me. They might be the stars of the show, but I'm the one running it. And I'll be more than happy to remind them of that if need be."

"You know, if you weren't my boss", Cora purred, "I would be sure to emphasize how attractive I find that arrogance right now."

"Attractive, sure. But it can also be quite dangerous."

I turned around at the sound of her voice and even though I had expected, and also hoped, to run into her sooner or later, seeing her standing there now, all of a sudden still managed to catch me off guard. She looked as stunning as ever, in a generously revealing but still classy dark purple dress, her pixie hair flaming in burning red, and the way it hit me when her eyes locked with mine was like a lightning strike.

"Even the most arrogant, confident and skilled Gamemaker", she began, the captivating gaze of her deep, brown eyes drilling deep into mine, "should never make the mistake of underestimating the actual players. Or those who've taught them to play."

I considered her for a moment, taking in the sight of her gorgeous form and admiring the sheer cheek she had to boldly and bluntly speak her mind, her obviously quite rebellious mind in public like this, in a room full of Capitol officials. It seemed she feared very little. But then again, she'd survived the Games once, an achievement not easily accomplished without bold actions and the absence of fear. And after outliving twenty-three other people in the arena and surviving all the twists and turns provided by the Gamemakers, expressing a controversial mindset in public probably didn't seem that risky anymore. Most capitolians found that kind of attitude unsettling, even threatening. I found it, especially in this case, particularly arousing.

"I assure you", I began, standing up and taking a couple of steps towards her to close the space between us, "that I wouldn't dream of overlooking what's right in front of me. Miss Cobb."

"Gamemaker Crane."

The intense eye contact felt like electricity.

"What can I do for you?" I inquired politely after a moment's silence.

"A lot things", she replied. "But we'll start with a drink, shall we?"

"Absolutely. After you."

And here I had been thinking of the interview as the highlight of the day, I thought as I exchanged a quick grin with Brett before following Arya to the bar. It had been insanely enjoyable, of course, hearing that crowd screaming my name, no denying of that. But if I had to choose between them and the District Five goddess at the counter... No competition whatsoever.

"Something strong", she told the bartender, who was clearly enjoying the view as well. I grinned to myself. I sure hoped to be enjoying a lot more than just the view, as magnificent as it was, by the end of the night.

"Make that two."

As the bartender went about his business, Arya turned back to me, and for a moment she just considered me in silence, the fire in her eyes challenging the ice of my own.

"So", she began. "After all these years you've finally made the top job. Officially become the man behind the mass murder."

"Behind the entertainment spectacle of the year, you mean", I said. "My job is to produce, direct and supervise an event that by law is ordered to be carried out every year, and make it as thrilling and entertaining as possible. That's not criminality, Miss Cobb. It's artistry. Would be wise to keep the difference in mind."

"Ah, yes", she nodded. "The highly appraised artistic talent of creating a venue for a bloodbath, the acclaimed ability of turning a fortnight of death and suffering into one big visual masterpiece. Yes, you told me when we first met that it was your passion and calling. That being an amazing Gamemaker was your greatest desire."

"May have been the greatest", I replied, with a sparkle in my eye, "but that night, I sure had other desires as well. I believe I told you that too. Remember?"

Something in her eyes stirred, and for a split second her iron-hard cool cracked a bit, just enough for me to wonder what it was that she was hiding behind that fiery gaze, behind that mask of determination and anger.

"Haven't really had the chance to forget", she said, burying back inside her whatever it was that had just fleetingly surfaced. Which only made me more eager to strip her down – remove both her clothes and her defenses.

"Perhaps we should make new memories then, to erase the old ones", I smirked. "Or to at least update them. If you know what I mean."

Returning the flirtatious smile, Arya downed one of the two shots of liquor we were served, and then stepped towards me, close enough to make my heartbeat quicken.

"Then perhaps you will find your way to the roof of the Training Center in, say, half an hour", she whispered, her face only inches apart from mine. Then she walked away, and disappeared into the crowd before I managed to regain the ability to produce speech again. Well, wasn't this disturbingly easy, I mused as I downed the remaining shot of liquor. Hell, with her agreeing to a private rendezvous, far from drunk, after practically no persuasion at all, it seemed she was either as irresistibly drawn to me as I was to her, or then she had something up her sleeve. Either way, I was going to find out.

I waited for twenty minutes and then headed out for the Training Center, my thoughts circling around Arya, and the conversation between us. The way she'd reacted when I had mentioned our first private rendezvous all those years ago had been surprising, to say the least, quite mysterious even. Like it had really unnerved her, big time. And due to my naturally curious mind, I was dying to know why. So I would be sure to try and get inside her mind at some point, treat myself to all her complex thoughts and secrets. After having treated myself to her body first, that was.

After the short walk to the Training Center and the elevator ride up to the top level, I finally found myself at the door to the roof. Alright then, I thought. Time to see if the old spark can still truly burst aflame. I opened the door and walked onto the roof. And frowned as I realized I was alone. Great, I thought. No bursting aflame tonight then, apparently. Guess this was a rebellious woman's idea of having fun, expressing her loathing of the Games and gamemaking as an occupation and career path by standing me up. And in a way I knew I should have expected nothing less. Which was why it irritated me all the more, the way I had willingly let her have me going. Gritting my teeth, I turned to head back inside.

Only to find myself staring straight into the barrel of a pistol. And at the redheaded woman holding it.


	4. Troublemaker

Chapter 3

**Troublemaker**

_My mind keeps saying "run as fast as you can"_

_Well, well, well_, I thought as the initial shock and surprise gave way to pure admiration of the sheer guts she had to pull a stunt like this. She really did have something up her sleeve, didn't she. And by the looks of it, she seemed pretty damn determined to see it through, whatever it was.

"I have to say I'm impressed", I said. "And a little confused too, since I'm not entirely sure if you actually want something else than a good time or whether this is merely your idea of exciting, original foreplay."

She stepped forward, pressing the barrel of the gun against my forehead.

"Now would be a good time to switch off the smartass mode, Crane", she hissed. "In case you haven't noticed, the odds are not exactly in your favor at the moment."

"Playing hard to get, are we?" I shot back with a daring smirk. "A bit old-school, don't you think?"

"I could kill you right this minute and not even blink", she snarled in response. "You don't want to encourage me."

"Trust me, I don't doubt your ability to commit a cold-blooded kill for a second, darling", I replied calmly. "But I don't think committing one tonight would benefit you all that much, which is why I'm relatively certain you won't be pulling that trigger on me. You _need_ me, don't you? For whatever it is you want. You _do_ despise me – hence the convincing threatening, and the tough struggle to fight the strong urge to actually realize that threat that no doubt is going on inside your head right now. But if you did, you'd get yourself killed as well, since you were the last person I had contact with before leaving the nightclub. It's not that hard for the officials to put two and two together after watching the surveillance tapes from both the nightclub and the Training Centre. Furthermore, as a desperate parent of a Tribute, one who as a former Tribute and Victor has also proved to be able to commit a kill without trouble when needed herself, you also have the perfect motif, and would consequently easily qualify as the unquestionable number one suspect from the start."

I risked a smug smile.

"And if _you_ get executed", I continued, "then who is there left to look after the poor kid? Because that's what this is about, isn't it? Your precious kid and the last desperate attempt to save him from the certain death that waits for him at the arena. And right now you're trying to threaten me into making it even theoretically possible for you to actually succeed. Correct me if I'm wrong."

A hesitant silence fell, and for a moment our eyes locked and our stares held. Then finally, Arya spoke.

"I see you're learning fast", she said. "Well, good. Saves me from having to explain in too much detail."

"I figured it might indeed please you if we just skipped the boring formalities and got right down to business", I agreed. "Talking about which, if you'd care to enlighten me by stating what it actually is you're inquiring of me, I'd be extremely delighted. After all, even though I very much doubt we'll be able to come to an understanding, I am still curious to hear what it is exactly I will be saying no to."

"Unfortunately, you don't have the luxury of saying no, _darling_", she shot back. "This time, we'll be playing by my rules. So here's what's going to happen. On the eve of the bloodbath and the beginning of the Games, after the Tribute interviews, you will arrange Aden's escape from the Training Centre and ensure both his and my access to a train out of the Capitol, and make sure our absence goes unnoticed for at least twelve hours. That should give us enough of a head start."

It was all I could do to not burst out laughing.

"Yeah, sure", I snorted, "as if they haven't already tightened security and surveillance all around the Capitol because of the Games, let alone at the goddamn train station. There's no way in hell you're going to get there unnoticed, not to mention making it to the outer districts without getting caught."

"With your influence and contacts, yes, there is", she insisted.

"And how on earth were you planning on persuading me into getting involved with something as ridiculously hopeless as what you've just described and willingly laying my reputation, my career and my very _life_ on the line by your request?" I inquired amusedly. "You know how corruption works, Arya. If you want to bribe or blackmail somebody, you better have something for them or something _on_ them. So I'm asking you again: what's in it for me?"

"What makes you so sure I don't have anything _on_ you?" she countered.

"The only thing you have on me, honey, is the night after your Victory Ceremony", I said, grinning mischievously, "which is not even near enough to interest the authorities. As to possible accusations for favoritism towards your son the Tribute in light of our acquaintance, good luck with that. This is the Capitol, Arya. The arena is not the only place where the Games take place. Everybody places bets and money buys you influence over events and, shall we say _incidents,_ occurring in the arena to a certain degree. As long as it is not too obvious, and we let the Tributes do the dirty part, finish the job so to speak, the authorities look the other way. So I'm sorry, but a trip down Memory Lane won't be enough to seal the deal here."

"Maybe not the trip itself", she replied, quietly now, "but its ongoing aftermath just might."

I frowned. I was no stranger to games, but at the moment I had no idea what the hell she was playing at. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

A bitter laughter escaped her as she shook her head, and for a moment I could see in her eyes the same glimpse of suppressed emotion as I had back in the nightclub.

"You'd think that for a smart man like yourself it wouldn't be that hard to read between the lines."

"I'll be happy to do the reading, darling", I replied, "but you're going to have to give me a little more of the lines first."

"Fine", she snapped, her eyes flaming with sudden anger. "Then read this: we spent that night together about exactly thirteen years ago. Twelve years and three months from that, this March, my son, Aden, turned twelve. Do the math."

This time, I did burst into laughter. Arya looked furious.

"Well I'm glad that you think it's funny!" she growled. "Glad that you're not taking this seriously!"

"Of course I'm not taking it seriously", I chuckled cheerfully. "Not that I'm saying it wasn't a good one – it was, probably the best one yet, to be honest. But the thing is, we get this all the time; all these different sob stories and random reasons why we should favor this and that Tribute in order to save this and that family and gain so and so much more fame and fortune in return. And every time the answer's the same: throwing in one or two incidents or changing the circumstances a bit to allow new chains of events to take place can be arranged, but consistently favoring a single Tribute in the arena, or even before entering the arena, is strictly against the rules and thereby out of the question. I do applaud you for the cheek to give this sob story thing a go, but to strike a deal, you're going to have to come up with something better than that. And by better, I mean some serious money."

"Money?!" spat Arya, outraged. "A fat paycheck, that's all you can think about? I just told you you have a son, _my _son! Does that not move you at all?!"

"Not in the slightest", I replied indifferently, "since it's obvious it's not true. I mean, come on, Arya – you're telling me I'm the only person you fooled around with back then? Plus, we only met once, shared one crazy night. You've got to admit your argument's not too solid."

"The last time I checked, one crazy night is quite enough to get the job done", she countered, staring knives at me. "And of course as a Capitol puppet you can't even begin to understand how completely unstable, broken and shattered the Games leave those few who make it back. Back here in the Capitol, after returning from the arena, I used every chance I was offered to blur my mind and find a moment, however brief, of blissful oblivion. I partied like crazy after the Victory Ceremony, nearly drowned myself in alcohol and let myself enjoy you for the night, concentrating on the physical pleasure in order to numb the emotional pain. But after I left the Capitol and returned to Five, where I couldn't postpone dealing with my messed up mind anymore, I stayed in my room, behind locked doors for six weeks, afraid that if I came out, they would take me back to the arena. I didn't eat for days, was afraid to go to sleep for months. I was afraid to go near other people or let them touch me, because I was suffering from serious emotional trauma caused by encounters and combat with the other Tributes at the arena. Sexual intercourse with another person usually includes being pretty close to and touching each other, so I presume you get what I'm saying here. You were the last person I let near me like that during the time frame we're talking about. I'm telling the truth. Aden's your son."

I considered her carefully, trying to find a tell, a sign that would give away her bluff. But her poker face never faltered, and her fiery gaze held, without a single blink. Well, wasn't she goddamn persistent with this. Almost distractingly persistent. She had really thought about this, hadn't she, put a lot of thought and effort into the story she was trying to sell me. And I had to admit she was presenting her case quite convincingly, too. Which was starting to make me uneasy. Why was she pushing it, appealing to the claimed blood connection between her kid and me, and the emotional response she clearly expected me to demonstrate? Why did she expect me to go with it, to believe her? To care.

Why weren't we talking business already?

"Look", I said, determined to put an end to the ridiculous scenario she was creating, to wipe clean the wall she was busy painting devils on. "I'll tell you what: as a… let's say an _old_ _friend_, I will throw in a favor or two for your kid once the Games begin, shall I, maybe score him a bit higher at the evaluation so that the others will take him seriously and perhaps even steer clear of him for a while at the beginning, how's that? And as an old friend I will also be very understanding and give you more than enough time to gather and deliver the compensation for my efforts. It's a good deal, Arya. The best you can get. So I suggest you drop the charade and just take it."

For a moment, Arya just looked at me in silence. But this time, there was no fire, no anger, no fury in her eyes. This time her gaze was cold as ice. Cold and strangely calm.

"Is that your final offer then?" she inquired coolly and formally. "Are you sure you don't want to consider taking what I'm telling you seriously?"

"Yes, I am. Glad we straightened that out. So shall we just shake on it and be on our way then?"

She smiled – a dangerous, cunning smile.

"Alright then", she said, lowering the gun, and turned to walk away as she placed it in her purse. "You don't believe me, fine. Let's see if the authorities take my statement as lightly as you do when I lay out the facts in front of them."

I followed her across the roof and made to open the door for her, putting on my gentleman smile just to annoy her.

"By all means, do whatever you think is necessary", I articulated. "It's your word against mine."

"So you're absolutely certain I'm lying?"she pressed on, stepping closer to me, so close it almost messed up my balance. "You're absolutely sure that if they'll ask you to take the necessary tests to prove my argument invalid, the results will be in your favor? Because if they're not…"

She tilted her head ever so slightly, her lips curving in the same dangerous smile that now sent a shiver down my spine.

"Because if they're not", she repeated, "then imagine what a scandal it would be if something like this got out. One of the Tributes turns out as the offspring of the Head Gamemaker. Sure they wouldn't take your title and give you the boot _right_ _away_. But your every move would be watched thrice as carefully, everything you made happen at the arena that involved Aden and the way you evaluated him before that would be scrutinized, questioned and judged. It would shift the attention from all the precious entertainment of the actual Games to the Control Room and the family drama affecting its efficient functioning. You know Snow won't tolerate anything of the sort. I would imagine he'd let you finish the Games, but as soon as a Victor was declared, he'd no doubt want to escort you out personally. And we both know what happens to people the president _escorts_ _out_. Your career as Head Gamemaker would be finished before it's even had time to properly begin, after only one _scandalous_ Games. I imagine that would not exactly be the kind of legacy you're looking to leave behind, is it now, _darling_? Correct me if I'm wrong."

She wasn't. Wrong. On the contrary, the image she was creating, the hypothetical chain of events she was describing would, should it somehow, inexplicably take place in reality, be every bit as disastrous and scandalous as she was saying. The end of my career, my name and reputation forever stained. Years of hard work, unyielding determination and perfected professional talent – all down the drain. Hell, the woman was threatening me with my worst nightmare. She didn't have the tricks to make it real though, I hurried to remind myself. She wouldn't be able to conjure up enough fake evidence to support her story in order to convince the authorities. She was lying, lying her face off, because that's what people did to get what they wanted. She wouldn't take it as far as to try and fool the authorities as well and risk getting her bluff called. Because she _would _get her bluff called. Right?

_Stop_, I told myself firmly, shaking off to the best of my ability the haunting, extremely uncomfortable, almost panic-like feeling the thought of the absurd alternative scenario brought about. _Stop falling for it. She's lying. End of story._

"You know, the joke's starting to get old", I told her, stepping inside and deliberately choosing to go for the stairs while she made for the elevator, suddenly determined to get away from her as quickly as possible, "and so is this conversation, because it's going nowhere. Which means we're wasting both our time. So if you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave. Good night, Miss Cobb."

"Your choice", I heard her calling after me. "Take tonight to say goodbye to your career, and expect a call from the authorities tomorrow night, then, after the Tribute Parade."

"Bring it on", I hissed, more to myself than for her to hear. If she wanted to play, then so be it. I was trained to play. To call the shots and crush anything or anyone who tried to outsmart me. This would be no different. We would play and she would lose. _End. Of. Story._

But no matter how hard I tried to silence it, the light, almost cheerful tone of her voice stuck in the back of my mind as I made my way back to street level and out of the building, repeating her last words over and over again, strengthening the doubts I was by the end of the night doing all I mentally could to strike down.

Would she really risk it? Could _I_ really risk it? I mean, if she'd play this game with me, _against _me, she would lose, without question. That wasn't the issue here. The issue, the _problem_, was the possibility – a very slim and extremely unlikely but yet not inexistent one – of her actually being able to take me down with her. All the way down to the worst case scenario.

And the worst case scenario wasn't pretty.

Splashing cold water on my face, I forced myself to break the unflattering chain of thoughts I had been constructing for hours already, and determinedly willed away the signs of uncertainty on the face in the bathroom mirror.

_Over my dead body._

* * *

"Two minutes to the first carriage", I announced less than twenty four hours later in the Control Room, as the entire team of Gamemakers were settling on their stations after frantic running around and doing last minute preparations in order to make sure the nationwide broadcast of the Tribute Parade would run smoothly. This night was when the show would really kick off properly, and I was determined not to let anything, not even some tiny, insignificant detail, fall out of place. Not only were the Games my chance for a breakthrough as a Gamemaker, they were also my first serious chance to show my skills as a television producer and director as well. And I would make sure nothing would ruin it. Not even goddamn Arya Cobb with her lies.

"Get much sleep last night?" inquired Brett casually, as he turned away from the monitors ahead of him to grin at me widely.

"Keep your eyes on the screen, Levenridge", I snapped, with my most authoritative voice. "And stop playing around. You're supposed to work here, so why don't you concentrate on doing what you get paid for."

Brett's grin only grew wider.

"Oh", he chuckled. "Didn't get anything _except_ sleep, apparently."

"Thirty seconds", I called out, ignoring him. "I want close-ups of every carriage as soon as they're out there, and about twelve seconds or so of the overall view, celebrity box and the audience in between carriages."

"So how'd you manage to screw it up?" Brett pressed on. "You pissed her off or something?"

"Fifteen seconds!" I called, striding towards Brett's station as I did and gave him the fiercest look I could manage as I stood right next to him, invading his personal space almost aggressively so that our faces were just an inch apart. "And if you want to be here when I finish the countdown, Levenridge, I seriously recommend cutting the crap right now."

There hadn't been too many times I had seen Brett Levenridge intimidated by anything, but apparently this time my furious gaze and commanding tone did the trick.

"Very well", was all he said as he nodded and turned back to his station.

"Very well, _sir_!" I snapped back as I made my way to the middle of the room and took one last glance around, meeting the eyes of each of my colleagues in turn. "Now, let's get this party started. Five, four, three, two, one. Go."

In the City Circle, the first carriage emerged into view, and the other eleven followed, each one timed to start their journey fifteen seconds after the previous one. The pairs of Tributes standing side by side in the carriages were all styled to look as pretentious as possible, and to depict the distinctive characteristics of their District. Excellent close-ups from the first four Districts showed just how detailed and skilled the styling really was, and I had to give it to all those professional stylists that worked to make the Tributes the kind of radiating stars they became once they emerged in those carriages. Even though I did appreciate my own occupation a whole lot more than I did styling, I had to admit that apparently those who had chosen that part, played it well.

"Nice close-up on Four there, Cora", I said as I passed her station. "And a clever transition to the-"

I never finished the sentence. For something cut me right off, stole my attention and messed up my concentration entirely. The close-ups from the District Five carriage, and the two Tributes greeting the crowd. A teenage girl, looking scared and lost and totally out of place in the middle of everyone's attention, and the younger, red-haired boy, with a much more confident, determined look on his face. Just like all the other Tributes, they were styled up to the last detail, honoring their District by wearing traditional, yet slightly updated and tweaked versions of powerplant worker's uniforms. But as I stared at the image, it wasn't the elaborate styling, nor the increasingly terrified expression on the girl's face that made the color of my own turn white as a sheet. It was the intense look in Aden Cobb's eyes – in the piercing, bright and icy blue pair of them.

It was like staring into a mirror.

_Shit_, was the only thought my brain managed to produce as the moment passed and the images on the screens changed into an overall view of the City Circle.

_Holy shit…_

* * *

Author's note: Thank you to everyone who's reading this for your patience. I know how annoying it is to wait this long for updates, and I'm sorry for not being able to speed up the writing process or just will writer's block to disappear when it hits. Also a big thanks to everyone who's been reviewing, it really makes my day to read those reviews, and your comments - whether they're compliments or constructive criticism - are much appreciated! :)


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